


all my guts, try to spill, all my holes, try to fill

by cultfilmx



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, F/M, Obsession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultfilmx/pseuds/cultfilmx
Summary: Your acts of desperation become more and more embarrassing. At first, after trying to use your rather limited imagination, you find yourself searching things like "masked men" on Pornhub, followed by "superhero". Evidently the overwhelming amounts of men in Captain America and Winter Soldier outfits doesn't quite suffice. If anything, you'd be better off being obsessed with Captain America--after all, he was a qualified "good guy", a World War II hero, and had a large quantity of porn centered around him. Instead you're stuck with a crush on a faceless, nearly invisible murderer.





	

No one would ever date a man like him if they were sane. Not to say you would have to be quite as "off the wall as him", but you have to have your own shit. You got to have your anxieties, your depression, your moods. If you aren't a bit crazy then there would be no appeal.

In a way both of you live in a world unsuited for your brains--except while he's out murdering for a living dressed in some kind of morph suit, you're indoors nearly every day with crippling anxiety, a disgustingly unkempt home, and a monthly government paycheck that keeps you alive.

Little good seemed to come from going outside in your experience. Outside meant noise, people, and danger. Ever since the alien attacks something deeply unsettling opened up inside of you, changing you entirely. Once upon a time you had a job, you had friends, you had your head on straight.

Outside was hard. Outside meant effort, and appearances. Since the attacks it was clear to you that you would rather live a monotonous life, than none at all. 

The only good thing that had come from outside was meeting him. 

You had been half way to the convenience store, since your usual stock of cup soup had been out for nearly a week. In a moment of weakness you were taken aback by some kids yelling loudly from behind you. Your brain, which still remains dismantled and haywire since the incident, is sent tumbling to nearly a year ago. You could feel that fear of your life dangling from a thread while aliens, fucking aliens, flew over you. 

It was just some kids. Just some kids. You're okay. You're fine.

You couldn't help it, before you knew it you started sweating and shaking, and the humiliation of that seemed to start the flood of tears.

The pang of hunger in your gut was bordering on nauseating, and you couldn't decide whether to bite back tears and bolt it to the store, or give up, go home and sleep. The dilemma seemingly made you cry more.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," his voice takes you by shock, setting your body into another round of shivers and sobs, "who do I gotta beat up to get a smile out of you, sweet cheeks?"

You feel a fire lick at you from underneath you skin. The last thing you needed was some strange man talking to you.

Through blurry eyes you turn your head to look at him--and for the first time in awhile your thoughts halt entirely. Holy fuck.

"Or we can just play therapist. I make a good therapist. I mean, I've played one. Like in bed, not on TV or an--"

"Deadpool," is all that comes out. Your fried brain can only conjure that. Your face starts to feel oddly taut as your tears dry against your skin.

"Sweetcheeks" he says back, imitating your tone to a tee.

"Are you..." A floodgate of questions open up, drowning your brain with so many words you can barely pick apart where to start. Why here? Why your neighborhood? What does he look like without the mask? "...going to kill me?"

He blinks, or at least, you think he does.

"No, angel, you'd definitely know if I was going to kill you." He gestures to all the guns and blades that sit still in their holsters.

"Oh." Is all you manage. You're meeting a fucking superhero and somehow have managed to embarrass yourself in less than a minute. "Your suit is really well sewn. Did you make it yourself?"

You can tell by the way his mask shifts that he is smiling, and it seems unwarranted and strange for anyone to smile at something you said.

"You're funny," he chuckles, and you can't help but sense a lilt of condescension in his tone. Although whether it is actually there, or just social anxiety and the residue of a flashback, is debatable. "Funny girls shouldn't cry."

"Every girl cries. And I'm a woman, not a girl." The words spill out faster than you're ready to handle, and they sound suspiciously like something you had said to your father not too long ago.

"Oof. Funny, hot, and mean--that's a wicked combo. Got anything else?"

"Crippling anxiety." You spit, rubbing your face with the back of your hand. Trying to shove the thought away that you'd just been called hot after having had a panic attack in public whilst sporting greasy hair and no bra.

"You are my dream woman," he puts emphasis on the woman part.

"I don't think so," Despite every bone in your body wanting to stay and ask him questions for hours, as if on autopilot, your bones seem to fail you and know its time to go home. You shuffle onto your feet uneasily. He springs up from his crouching position to meet you, he's nearly a foot taller than you are and you're suddenly even more overwhelmed than before.

"So I'm serious. Who do I gotta beat up for the anxious, pretty, funny woman to smile?"

"Why do you assume its a boy prob--"

"Man," he interjects. You roll your eyes.

"Why do you assume its a man problem?" You say flatly. Trying to examine where exactly his eyes are placed behind his mask, and how exactly it was able to move so accordingly. "I could be gay."

"Are you gay?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe I am too."

You raise an eyebrow, "then why are you flirting with me?"

He wiggles his eyebrows, or, whatever might be his eyebrows. What moments ago was curiosity and shock had dissipated to total discomfort. The last thing you needed in your life was any form of danger.

"I'm serious, do you get off on crying chicks?" Your own words shock you, this fire inside of you wasn't something you had experienced in nearly a year. Your passion and temper had diminished since your trauma, and to taste it again so intensely was exhilarating. 

"I get off on most things."

Gross.

"Okay. Thank you for asking, but I'm good. No man problems. No issue here." You start to make your way home, ignoring the pangs of hunger in your stomach.

"Oh good," he loops his arm with yours. "Then I guess I can keep this well tailored suit clean for a bit longer today."

His touch is the first you've experienced in months. It nearly electrocutes you its so odd. You stare at your arm dumbly, mouth agape.

"You okay there, butternut?"

Letting the nickname slide, you swallow and nod. 

"Don't you have someone to kill? Shouldn't you be fighting or saving someone?" You nearly whisper.

"Nah. I'm on my lunch break. Was heading to get some Mexican but got distracted.

"Distracted?" you repeat, barely taking in what he's saying.

"Its you, munchkin, I'm referring to you."

Your cheeks burn and you can't tell if its anger or amusement that's making this happen. Yet, despite every want to move, you sit in this moment--completely uncertain what to say.

"Yes, I know that, but do you try to take care of all the crying women you see?"

"Only the hot ones."

"Preying on crying women is pretty disgusting," You snap, turning to look at him.

"Who says I'm preying?" 

"Well, you've been rubbing at my hips for nearly half a minute."

"Is this preying?" He muses innocently. "I'd call it sensory exercising."

You snap back into reality, pulling your arm away from his. But the feeling of him still stings and tingles at the skin of your arm. You finally manage to get your legs moving again, and back at the mission to go home.

"I'd call it assault. Thanks again for the therapy, but I need to go."

"Go where?" He calls out, but you decidedly ignore him. If you ignore him, he'll go away. If you forget this ever happened, he'll forget you.

And of course, much to your initial dismay, you dream about him for weeks to come. You find yourself in a cyclical tornado of thoughts--How you could have been funnier, braver, more inquisitive, more sexy? You try to remember all the little details, playing it in your head over and over but your brain is so hazy that its all just a blur of sarcasm, touch, and red, black and white. 

You think about him when you're bingeing Netflix, when you take out the recycling, when you play MMoRPGs. He shook your entire routine. 

When your mom had noted that you sounded "better", you knew he had truly gotten to you. You didn't feel better, you felt distracted.

You play out scenarios in your head of him shooting you, or of him holding you. All more ridiculous than the last. You have dreams where he stabs you, you have wet dreams.

You feel like whatever you thought was already broken has shattered further. 

Its laughable how little you are in contrast to super powered people. They seemingly weave their way in and out of everyday peoples' lives. And yet, their purpose is to save you, a purposeless little brat.

After three months draw by and winter hits, your depression comes full force. Whatever thoughts of Deadpool you had had are now drowned out by reoccurring flashbacks and insomnia.

You find yourself drifting from medicated sleep to medicated sleep, the world forever humming in and out of your senses.

"You're stiff as a board when you sleep. Snoozing is for relaxing, bug."

At first it feels like maybe you're still dreaming. That you had imagined it in a half awake daze, so you brush it off, shuffle around with your blankets and let yourself drift once more, still feeling drowsy from your sleeping meds. After all, his voice playing in your head was nothing new.

"Ooo. Nip slip."

Your eyes shoot open and your heart nearly catapults out of your chest. All you can manage is a high pitch screech. You're somewhere between fight or flight and it's unbearably overwhelming. He's lying beside you, still in full suit, head propped up, in the darkness of your room, watching.

"Whatthefuck?" You slur, unable to wrap your head around this home invasion. "Whatevfuck?"

He runs his gloved thumb across your cheek and a stale, musky scent floods your senses.

" You," he begins, "are a temptress."

"I'm gonna call the police." You announce, remaining still in bed. He continues to rub your cheek with the same lazy pattern. Instead of getting up, you roll over, diving back into the unconscious.

"You get right on that." 

And just like that, you slip into an oddly dreamless slumber that smells of gun powder.

When you do wake up, it's with a start. Your bed is absolutely freezing. You're so incredibly cold. Wrapping your blankets tighter around you, you lift your head to take a glance around your room, trying to piece together whether that was some kind of waking nightmare. 

You had left the window open, in the midst of winter. Even a small amount of snow had gathered on your floor. Which can only mean, that all of this was very real. Depression made your memory hazy, but you're not an idiot, you would never open a window when your apartment is the perfect temperature. Still shrouded in your blanket, you shuffle across the floor, feet growing damp from the wetness of the melted snow. It's impossible not to notice the bloody hand print that contrasts so starkly with the white of the snow on your floor. Definitely not a dream.

A few months roll by and you find yourself becoming obsessed with him. He's nowhere near as reputable as the Avengers, or Spider-Man, but every once in awhile your Google Alert will go off and you get a quick peak as to where he's at. Sometimes he's in Russia, or even Mexico the day after, and you can't help but to wonder if the man sleeps.

Your acts of desperation become more and more embarrassing. At first, after trying to use your rather limited imagination, you find yourself searching things like "masked men" on Pornhub, followed by "superhero". Evidently the overwhelming amounts of men in Captain America and Winter Soldier outfits doesn't quite suffice. If anything, you'd be better off being obsessed with Captain America--after all, he was a qualified "good guy", a World War II hero, and had a large quantity of porn centered around him. Instead you're stuck with a crush on a faceless, nearly invisible murderer.


End file.
